


Afternoon Tea

by shihadchick



Category: U2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-03
Updated: 2005-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:26:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shihadchick/pseuds/shihadchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quiet afternoon, Atomic Bomb era.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afternoon Tea

He's hung out the window, yelling cheerfully at some poor bastard who's caught his attention, and all you really can manage to do is think fond insults towards his back. Luckily, despite the day and the time and the occasion no one seems to be paying terribly much in the way of attention towards him and even more luckily you're not likely to get disapproving looks from the staff – hanging out the windows in this establishment being rather discouraged, generally - because, well. He is who he is. You're Someone as well, you're reminded belatedly, catching the double-take look of a passer-by, but it's not something you think of often, not when you're preoccupied with him.

Which you very much are, right now.

Affection aside, a vague undercurrent of frustration has you jiggling your foot discreetly underneath the table, brows drawn together in a half-frown. Time is an especially precious commodity at present, and this is a rare day off, a rare day on home ground, with the familiar. A rare day where you're allowed him – supposedly allowed him, that is – for the whole day. Just for the two of you.

…of course, as usual, 'the two of you' in practice turns out to be 'you, him, and every other living soul in and around Dublin.'

You tamp down that flicker of nervous irritation, suffocate it underneath long-practised tolerance, a form of patience honed over many years. And it's more than worth it for the grin he turns on you as he clambers down again, foot slipping on the chair he was stood on (his soles too thick, as always, and slippery) and he only saves himself by clutching at your biceps. Strong hands steadying himself at the expense of a few bruises, his weight a warm comfort, dragging at your shoulders, counterbalanced by the warm light in his eyes, a smile that is reserved for you alone.

"Upstairs?" he murmurs, not entirely a question, fingers brushing against the inside of your wrist, a wholly intimate gesture, coupled with a speaking glance so eloquent (so direct, so unguarded and unmistakeably inviting) that you're surprised no one else seems shocked. That there aren't scorch marks across the expensive linen tablecloth. Shameless, this man.

The two of you drift up the stairs, conversation low and meaningless, nudging doors with hip and elbow, his hand on the small of your back, desire masquerading as casual courtesy.

You've rooms here for the entirety of this weekend, a habit of many years; not worth trying to cram into homes that feel the wrong shape, that move at an unfamiliar place and in an alien rhythm. Only one of them will be slept in, of course, but that's a secret that those who need to know about are well used to keeping.

The windows demand your attention for long minutes, standing tangled together, caught in the drapes, caught by the busy swirl of people below, your city, your people, your river scudding by, lapping heavily just under the boardwalk, worn thick and muddy by time and industry. Buses and taxis rumble by, the double-glazing distancing the noise, leaving the only the colour and motion. You can stand and watch for hours when the mood takes you, inventing stories and histories for the tourists on the bridge, idly analysing the ebb and flow of it all, but you've neither the time nor the inclination now, not with his palm at the base of your spine, dragging up your shirt so it catches on the heavy wristwatch he's taken to wearing, setting you shuddering (sweetly, so sweetly) as he counts your vertebrae, still so obviously enamoured with you after all this time, a fascination you're more than thrilled to share.

His palm cups your jaw as he turns to you, the afternoon light playing at shadows and lines across his face, a chiaroscuro sketch blending one expression into the next, fading to a beloved abstract as he moves too close to focus on properly, mouth ghosting over yours to share a kiss. It's nearly chaste, then, a subdued hunger between parted lips, but no more than the warmth of skin and shared breath joining you both. One of you makes a soft contented noise, indistinguishable, a sub-vocal request which leads to him nuzzling at your neck, to your fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, nails indenting the thin skin covering his skull. Moments pass in this haze, as is their wont, and you couldn't be certain how long you stood like this before disengaging just a little, still content mostly just to watch him.

As always the look he favours you with in return catches your breath in your throat, stills you against him as you melt into each other anew, as he tugs you back from the windows, the curtains catching at your angles, snagging at shoulder and knee, and you swear around the shared laughter as you have to shake your foot free of one particularly stubborn tangle, hopping awkwardly.

"You’ll go arse over tit that way, the Edge," he warns you with a wicked smile, steadying you with both body and voice, ducking in to press more kisses to your mouth, eager, devouring you even more enthusiastically than he’d demolished his tea scones. Your hands settle at his hips, fingertips nudging underneath his belt, untucking his shirt. Undressing him is a particular pleasure, something to linger over when you can. He's strong and hot, pressed up against you, tilting your head back and tempting you to further improprieties.

You manage to choke out a feeble response to him around this assault, "thought that was how you liked me," and a friendly chuckle rocks his frame against you for a moment, before his hands are moving again, echoing your own, and then he's walking you backwards, a few steps until your calves bump into the mattress. You let go reluctantly, hands going behind you for balance, eyes not leaving his as you shuffle backwards, leaning against the headboard while he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He toes off his shoes, kicking them carelessly under the valance before crawling onto the bed, body covering yours, nearly stifling with the heat trapped around your clothes.

It's a relief to be horizontal now, to concentrate on nothing more than holding, on kissing, on the slow easy slide of skin on skin. His shirt is hanging loosely from his shoulders soon thereafter, direct result of practised contortions to unfasten his buttons, tugging the cotton off his shoulders, baring chest and back to a purred response. His teeth come into play then, tugging at your lip when you start working on his trousers, wriggling and writhing over you.

You arch as his mouth moves, nipping along the cords of your neck, playing within the love-making, indulging until you’re both warm and loose, til he rolls off you briefly, already naked as a jay, Cheshire-cat warring with impatience in his grin while he waits for you to catch up, your shirt and jeans joining his on the floor. The sheets are briefly cool against your back as you curl around him, and then the sensation is gone, lost under a flood of impressions which are far more important; the way his throat moves as he swallows hard around the breaking syllables of your name, the impression of his rings biting into your palms as he holds your wrists above your head, the lewd growl of possession that runs through and over you, silken in its smoothness and laced with the kind of kick you'd normally get from expensive whiskey. His skin tastes of contentment and home, familiar under your tongue, addictive, necessary. All is need and hunger, assuaged at last (or as nearly as it can be, ever, for the two of you) as you're overcome, swept away, knocked tumbling and sent dazed.

You surface blearily some time later, weary and vaguely aware of the tangle of limbs you've ended up in. The sheets are now untucked on one side, and experience tells you that neither you nor he will bother to fix them. You retrieve enough coordination to reach for a pillow, tucking it behind your head in the extension of a move that leaves you curled more securely against him, murmuring soft endearments, helpless, enraptured, lazily content in his arms with his own promises still echoing in your ears.

The sun slides below the horizon unnoticed as you drift, washing over the city and the shades and leaving you unattended, left at last to your own devices.

This day owes you nothing.


End file.
